


Allusions

by calcaneus



Category: Bridgerton (TV), Bridgerton Series - Julia Quinn
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-13 15:21:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29903106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calcaneus/pseuds/calcaneus
Summary: Missing moments from Bridgerton.How did Anthony hear of the late duke's death? Did Daphne really turn down three proposals in a single week? How did the second dance at the ball at Vauxhall Gardens go? What's the deal with Simon's mother's favourite painting?And what on earth was Simon doing at the Dark Walk?
Relationships: Daphne Bridgerton/Simon Basset
Kudos: 67





	1. Now known forevermore

_“I heard news of your father. Deuce take it, you are no longer Basset. Hastings! The Duke of Hastings, now known forevermore.”_

It was a damp night in late March, and the hour was approaching midnight. Lord Anthony Bridgerton had retreated to the library at White’s, enjoying a brandy and the relative quiet. The clinking of glasses, the comforting smell of cigar smoke and the deep tones of the gentlemen around him provided a welcome respite from the feminine inferno, which currently reigned at his family home. The first of his younger sisters was entering society this Season, and the preparations had turned Bridgerton House into a cross between a war-torn battlefield and a modiste’s workshop, with dresses, shoes, and a dozen other types of garments he couldn’t possibly name, strewn across every available surface. When he had left his mother and sisters earlier that evening they had been fervently debating the advantages of silk slippers over muslin.

Their worry seemed somewhat misplaced in Anthony's opinion. His sister Daphne was for all intents and purposes the perfect debutante. Beautiful, elegant and innocent. Well-educated, well-mannered and well-bred. Come April Miss Daphne Bridgerton would be surrounded by a swarm of suitors.

No, the true challenge would be to sift through all of the rakes, spendthrifts, fortune hunters and untitled younger sons and find that rare man who would be able to keep his sister safe and secure. Anthony did not hold much hope. Half of the men of the ton seemed utterly unsuitable for a viscount’s sister and the other half, well–.

Anthony leant back further in his leather armchair and let out a deep sigh. Being head of a family was exhausting.

He emptied his drink, and had half a mind to leave the club and seek out his mistress across town, when the side door burst open and disrupted the tranquil atmosphere.

“Have you heard? They say he has died!” Mr Lumley was not usually a man prone to outbursts, and his social standing, which was relatively modest compared to most of the gentlemen who frequented White’s, would on any other occasion have kept him from commandeering the attention of the entire room.

The Marquess of Finley seemed to agree with this assessment and, likely annoyed to have been disturbed in the middle of a winning hand of cards, was quick to question the intruder, “What are you on about, man?”

“The Duke of Hastings. He’s dead. All the lights are out at Hastings House, and I caught one of the footmen – He was on his way to Fleet Street. I guess it will be in _The Times_ by tomorrow.”

Quiet murmurings broke out at the tables and the gentlemen who had not at first taken notice of Mr Lumley’s entrance now turned towards him.

“It’s true.” The Earl of Haversham had entered the room and placed his hand on Lumley’s shoulder. The Earl raised his other hand and held up an open letter. Even from a distance one could see the glossy red wax of the seal. “I’ve just received this message from Hastings’s solicitor. His Grace is no more.”

With the confirmation, the whole room erupted in loud voices and heated debate.

It always caused an uproar when giants of the peerage fell, but this particular death could come as no surprise. Rumour would have it that the Duke of Hastings had been ill all through winter. Anthony for his part had not seen the man since Parliament was last in session, and then only from a distance. A weak heart, they said, and Anthony could well believe it. One might even question whether the old duke had possessed a heart at all.

Similar thoughts were being aired across the room. Hadn’t the duke seemed to be ailing at the last debate in Parliament? No one had seen him at Court the past few months. How old had he been, exactly? Of course, the life of a duke came with many taxing duties and responsibilities that might easily wear on a man. Yet Hastings had always seemed unmovable, impenetrable somehow. A damn shame that he should pass like this, and may he rest in peace.

The gentlemen toasted, refilled their glasses, and talk turned from the late duke to the new holder of the title.

“Surely he must be in London already,” reasoned Mr Worthington.

“Why should he? He and the late duke have been estranged for years. If he did not even return when the old man fell ill, why should he return now?” challenged Finley.

“To take up his position, of course! Or to settle the estate at least. There are an awful lot of loose ends to tie when a duke dies.” The other men hummed noncommittally. Mr Worthington was the second son of a mere baron. What would he know of the affairs to be managed when a duke died?

“Lord Basset never seemed to care much for estates or position, nor for titles neither. Bit arrogant, that one. Always quiet, always watching. Thought himself above it all, I suppose.” The Earl of Stafford entered the conversation for the first time, his words infected with just a touch of venom. Even from a few tables over Anthony couldn’t help but scoff and narrow his eyes. Despite his standing in society, Stafford was a social climber and a tagalong, always trying to get in with the older boys when they were all at school. The current venom in his voice was most likely due to jealousy.

“And how would you know?” The Earl of Haversham turned his hawk-like stare on Stafford.

“He was two years above me at Eton. One sees things.”

“Right. And what you saw was a future duke, who was not only an excellent shot, rider and fencer, but who also took a first in mathematics. Praised by his professors, respected by his friends and admired by the ladies. Perhaps envy and not arrogance might be at play here?” With a challenging tilt of his eyebrow Haversham emptied his drink, slammed the glass down on the table and left.

With only the young bucks now remaining at the table, both the brandy and the gossip was flowing freely, and the rumours about Lord Basset, now the Duke of Hastings, grew ever more outlandish. He had travelled to the Continent, the Far East, Africa, or was it the Americas? He had seduced a nun in Rome, had an affair with the Ottoman sultan’s wife and married a Hindu princess. He had ridden on the back of a camel across the Sahara desert and been taken in by pirates in the Caribbean.

Laughter, teasing and calls for drinks followed each new story.

Just as Anthony had resolved to leave for the night, believing that he might be able to slip out without Stafford, Finley, Worthington and their entourage noticing him, Finley broke off from his most recent tale and addressed Anthony from across the room.

“You knew him at Oxford, didn’t you, Bridgerton?”

There was no point in denying it. “I did. At Eton, too.”

“And?”

The challenge was unmistakable, but Anthony much preferred to remain ambiguous.

“Whose to say? It’s been years. Whoever he was when he left, there’s no telling who he might be now. A man can change a lot in three years.”

“Or not at all.” The look on Finley’s face was uncomfortably close to malicious. “What do you think, gentlemen?” He turned once more to the gathering at his table. “A hundred pounds says the new Duke of Hastings is not in London, but in the arms of an exotic beauty in a brothel somewhere in Constantinople, half out of his mind with drink!”

A roar of laughter surged towards the ceiling. “Hear, hear!”

“A toast!” The Marquess proclaimed, and raised his glass. “To the new Duke of Hastings! Wherever the fuck he may be!”

The men all rose, legs unsteady, chairs tilting, brandy sloshing over their hands. They hit their glasses together and saluted. “To the new Duke of Hastings!”

Anthony turned his back to their merry-making and left.

He had known Basset for twenty years, and yet he was not sure how he would have placed his bet, should he have been called upon to do so. A seraglio in the East or a pirate ship in the Caribbean. Hastings House in London or some gambling hell on the other side of the world. It all seemed equally possible.


	2. A favourite of my mother's

_”If Lady Danbury is to be believed, this one was a favourite of my mother’s. I have never understood why.”_

”And what are these?” Lady Danbury gestured with her cane in the general direction of the large amount of artworks that used to occupy the upper galleries of Hastings House, but which were now gathered in the entrance hall with servants milling about – taking measures, crossing off lists and boxing up paintings.

”The pieces I am donating to Somerset House.”

”Ah, yes, the cultural beacon of the country. Well, you’re quite right to clear out all of these dark and dreadful daubs. The late duke always did have a most peculiarly sinister taste.” Lady Danbury had paused in front of a particularly dark and gloomy oil painting, the corners of her mouth turning down in distaste. “But I guess it won’t matter much to the ton. As long as it was painted by Sir so-and-so and donated by Lord such-and-such, they will coo over it regardless. Honestly, the pretension of the average English peer is simply–”

Simon had taken the liberty of reviewing a list proffered to him by his butler, Jeffries, letting the dowager enjoy her rant about the general lack of cultural education in the upper echelons of English society in peace, but her sudden halt made him turn towards her once more.

”Lady Danbury?”

”You’re donating this too?” She had stopped in front of a painting yet unboxed. The gilded frame held the rendering of an ethereal English landscape – a countryside vista at dawn.

Simon seemed to hesitate. ”Why, yes…”

”Hmm…” Lady Danbury tilted her head to the side, considering the painting further. ”It was a favourite of your mother’s.” Her shrewd eyes turned on Simon. “Didn’t I tell you?”

”You did.” Simon remembered standing in front of the painting as a young boy, taking in the soft tones of blush, pink, blue and golden brown – trying and failing to find his mother somewhere in the delicate brushwork.

”Perhaps you ought to keep it,” Lady Danbury stated.

”And why is that?”

A blasé shrug of a bony shoulder. The expression in her eyes was a curious mix between sarcasm and deep sincerity. ”Sentimental attachment?”

Simon scoffed.

”It’s a field, Lady Danbury. I’m not sure how much sentimental attachment it is capable of carrying.”

“Hmm.” Lady Danbury shook her head at him and turned to the butler, “Jeffries, I assume tea is in the drawing room?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Excellent.” Lady Danbury set off towards the main drawing room with an impressive speed for a lady who claimed both age and worn knees.

Simon watched her leave the hall, then turned back towards the painting.

Sentimental attachment. Sentiment hadn’t played a major role in his life so far. He didn’t believe his father had ever felt anything besides pride, anger and ambition, and for all of her good qualities Lady Danbury possessed a no-nonsense type of affection that didn’t exactly lend itself to soft-hearted displays.

Still. He wasn’t entirely innocent of sentimental behaviour himself, was he?

Simon broke off from his reverie, straightened his waistcoat and fiddled with the emerald brooch at his collar for barely a moment.

“Your Grace?” The butler let his eyes travel from Simon, to the painting, and back again.

“Please, continue as you were, Jeffries.” There was no need to change the donations to Somerset House. After all, one sentimental display was more than enough.


	3. He sent flowers today

_“They promenaded this morning and he sent flowers today. To both of us.”_

_“Expensive ones.”_

By the time Daphne and her mother returned from their promenade in Hyde Park with Lady Danbury and the duke, the flowers had already started arriving.

Daphne quickly went upstairs to take off her pelisse and refresh herself, eager to go back down and inspect the flowers. Surely this must mean that their ruse was already working? That she had captured the attention of the gentlemen of the ton once more and could very well expect callers later today? She took a trembling breath at the thought. Sending a modest bouquet of flowers to one’s dance partner was merely a show of good manners. But sending an expensive arrangement, or delivering one’s offering personally, that showed a marked interest. Come teatime she would know whether the first step of their scheme was a success, but she would be able to qualify any further speculation by discovering which gentlemen had sent flowers so far.

Determined to learn more, Daphne hastened down the stairs to examine the calling cards attached to the numerous flower arrangements.

As soon as she reached the bottom of the stairs however, she was met with not only their butler Humboldt, a handful of housemaids and several elaborate flower arrangements, but her mother as well, still wearing the pelisse she had donned for their promenade.

“Mama, what are you doing?”

Her mother spun towards her. “Oh! Just – Managing the flowers, dearest.” Lady Bridgerton fluttered about the hall, not seeming to manage much. Daphne pursed her lips. How best to get her mother upstairs so she might read the cards in peace?

“Well, I’m sure Humboldt is quite capable of–”

The man in question called for Lady Bridgerton’s attention from his place at the door.

“Flowers from the Duke of Hastings, my lady.”

“Ah!” Despite her attempts at nonchalance, this was quite clearly the flowers the lady had been waiting for. She hastened across the room, Daphne not far behind her.

“Two arrangements?” wondered Lady Bridgerton, as the maids presented her with two lavish bouquets of white, soft pink, coral, greens and varying shades of purple.

“One for Miss Daphne and one for you, my lady,” explained the butler.

“For me?” For just the briefest of moments Daphne could have sworn she saw a sheen of wetness in her mother’s eyes. Then she blinked rapidly and collected herself.

“Oh, how thoughtful. How lovely.” She addressed her daughter with a soft smile. “Isn’t that thoughtful of the duke, dearest?”

“Yes. Very thoughtful.”

Lady Bridgerton stroked a purple dahlia and fluffed the crisp spearmint. “Such a well-chosen arrangement. Dahlias for dignity and elegance, and spearmint for a warm sentiment. Gladiolus for generosity, oh, and flax for domesticity. Most suitable. And what are those? Starwort, welcome to a stranger, I believe. Well, the duke certainly knows his flowers. A perfect bouquet for the mother of one’s, well…” Her mama sent a knowing glance towards Daphne, who couldn’t help but blush. Lady Bridgerton turned to Humboldt and the maids once more.

“Humboldt, please have this bouquet placed in the morning room. The flowers for Miss Daphne shall be put in the drawing room.”

“Very good, my lady.”

Lady Bridgerton put her arm through Daphne’s and guided her towards the stairs. “Come, dearest, let us go and see how your bouquets might appear to the best advantage.”

Once in the drawing room Violet Bridgerton supervised the placement of the duke’s flowers in particular with the utmost care. “There! Just right!” With their mistress satisfied, the housemaids left the room, and Daphne was able to get a closer look at the bouquet for the first time. There had been no message on the card attached to the flowers, only a signature and the prancing bull of the Hastings family crest. Of course, if the duke had taken as much care in the choosing of the flowers for her arrangement as he had her mother’s, it should be easy enough to interpret whatever missive he wished to communicate.

Her mother seemed to be of the same opinion. “Well, I do not believe we have anything to worry about with regards to the duke’s intentions,” she said with satisfaction.

“Whatever do you mean, Mama?”

“Come now, my dear. I know you are as well-versed in the language of flowers as I. Ragged robin, ranunculus, pale pink roses and white zinnia – Wit, radiance, grace and goodness. You do not need _me_ to tell you that you have thoroughly charmed the duke if those are the qualities he sees in you.”

Daphne felt her mouth twist in an uneasy smile and quickly turned towards the flowers to hide her expression from her mother. Wit, radiance, grace and goodness. All traits associated with a perfect debutante. A diamond of the first water. The duke knew that as well as she did, and had already proved himself capable of playing the game of courtship if it suited him. That was all these flowers were. A clever move from a skilled player. The pale pink roses and the white blooming zinnias could never be true compliments, and the baby’s breath and gardenias, with their message of innocence and purity, seemed more mocking than sincere. Not of her, necessarily, although she couldn’t fight the echo of _chaste, neat, desperate_ invading her head, but of the entire concept of debutantes. Send flowers, she had all but ordered, and this was his answer.

Lady Bridgerton approached her daughter and put an arm around her shoulders. “Is something the matter, darling?” she asked, and attempted to catch Daphne’s gaze.

“Oh no, Mama. Nothing’s the matter. I was just feeling… overwhelmed, I guess.” Daphne drew in a trembling breath. Why were thoughts of the duke affecting her like this?

“Well, that is perfectly understandable. One’s first Season can be quite emotional and over-powering. It is no wonder you should feel overwhelmed from time to time. The most important thing to remember, is to take deep breaths,” Lady Bridgerton mimicked the action with exaggeration, “and to listen to what your heart is telling you.” She squeezed Daphne’s shoulders and pressed a kiss against her temple. “If you do that, all will be well, I promise.”

“Thank you, Mama.”

Lady Bridgerton smiled at Daphne fondly.

“Now tell me, do you like the flowers?”

“Oh… yes. I do. Certainly.” Daphne composed herself. “Ranunculus is one of my favourite flowers, you know. The roses – Such large blooms despite the early season.” She put on a playful smile. “And, well, the gooseberry blossoms are certainly a clever touch. A remembrance of the evening he dinned with us. And combined with blossoms of almond as well. Anticipation and hope. That should give me cause to consider him a serious suitor, shouldn’t it, Mama?”

“It most certainly should.”

Lady Bridgerton left Daphne to her flowers and went to call for tea to be served. Finally able to appreciate the bouquet without her mother’s eyes noting her every expression, Daphne let her gaze drift across the spindly purple leaves of the ragged robins, the sweet-smelling almond blossoms and the – coral roses? There weren’t many, and her mother hadn’t mentioned them. Daphne remembered the various meanings of a rose’s particular colour quite well – Yellow for friendship, pale pink for grace, white for purity and red for true love, but for some reason, the symbolism of the coral rose seemed to escape her. She reached out slowly to touch the silky petals of the rose, when recollection hit. Desire. She withdrew her hand quickly, as if she had been about to do something forbidden.

Why would the duke send her flowers with a message like that? To tease her? He had certainly done so at their promenade this morning. He couldn’t possibly be sincere – could he? Nestled against the white gardenias, the coral roses seemed foreign, dangerous. What did desire mean, exactly? How did it feel? Daphne had always strived to excel, to succeed, to know, but it was slowly dawning on her, that here was something she did not yet understand. There was more to the game of courtship than promenades, dance cards, flowers and chilled glasses of lemonade. But was this the answer? Desire?

The duke had hinted at something of the sort this morning, when he had claimed to need not flowers, but privacy, to truly court her. She hadn’t quite grasped his meaning, but the look in his eyes… It had made her feel the same swirling sensation deep in her belly as when she was in his arms last night at Vauxhall. That feeling, could that mean, could that possibly be–

“Ah! Tea is ready! Marvellous!” Her brother Colin entered the drawing room, most likely summoned by the unmistakable smell of perfectly buttered toast. Daphne retreated to her pianoforte and commanded herself to forget all about coral roses, hidden meanings and rich brown eyes.

But Daphne couldn’t forget the roses and their soft coral hue. Later that week, when she twisted in bed after the Ramsbury ball, unable to sleep, the roses came to her mind once more. Could she have been mistaken? Was it in fact coral roses for friendship and yellow roses for desire? Her entire body was humming with an unknown feeling and the skin between her shoulder blades were still tingling from when Simon had touched her with his bruised hand, the tips of his fingers as tender and delicate as any rose petal.

There was only one way to find out. She snuck out of bed and tiptoed downstairs to the library. Despite the darkness, she was quick to locate what she was seeking - _The Sentiment of Flowers; or, Language of Flora_. She brought the book to the window, where the light from a gibbous moon helped her find the correct page. _Coral rose. Rosa corallium. Like most roses, the coral rose is used by courting couples to communicate feelings of romance. But where roses of white and blush are used to signify more innocent expressions of love, and the red rose for true love and eternal commitment, the coral rose expresses that much more earthy, physical side of romance. Desire._

Her suspicions confirmed, Daphne gasped and snapped the book shut.


End file.
